


Fair Form

by MyresLight



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, but why would i listen to canon when i could instead change it to fit my own whims?, yes i know maitimo actually translates better to well-shaped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 08:27:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30069459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyresLight/pseuds/MyresLight
Summary: Five years after Nelyafinwë is born, his mother names him Maitimo.The name follows him through the years.
Relationships: Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo & Nerdanel
Comments: 23
Kudos: 44





	Fair Form

**Author's Note:**

> so i had half-written this two months ago and left it in my drafts. i saw that feanorian week on tumblr was coming up so i decided to tidy it up and post it because i love this ginger disaster!

Five years after Nelyafinwë is born, his mother names him Maitimo.

As with many mothers amongst the Noldor, Nerdanel bases this off the person he grows into. She bases it off her son as what he is and what he will be, not any lofty titles of what he may become.

Nerdanel grips her son’s shoulders, meets his gaze, and names him Maitimo.

She does this for she senses that he will grow tall and handsome. Envied even among the immortal and fair Eldar. A heartbreaker, Fëanor jokes. A prince, Finwë remarks. At some point, both are correct.

But Nerdanel is called wise, and it is not a title bestowed in vain. When she names her son, she names him for his looks true enough, but she also names him for more.

She names him because she knows he will be great. He will be respected for his keen mind and his thoughtful demeanour. Nerdanel watches her eldest run off to excitedly tell his younger brother the name that he has just been given, and she senses that he will be, above all else, just in nature. Fair. Admired by many for his wisdom and strength. Well-formed in body and mind and spirit.

She is right. But there are some things even Nerdanel cannot see.

* * *

Findekáno realises that he desires Maitimo three months after his coming of age.

He has loved him long before then.

But then again, it was difficult not to love him. He was as cunning as he was gentle. Witty, stable, and thoughtful. Even Turukáno, who could huff and fight with the rest of his Fëanárian cousins with ease, always lit up when Maitimo closed his eyes and bade his younger cousins hide within the palace grounds. They spent long, bright days running and playing within their grandfather’s home. Yet all of Findekáno’s happiest moments are when he has Maitimo’s attention to himself.

Findekáno realises the extent of this desire when riding with Maitimo south of Tirion, skirting where the treeline meets slow, rolling hills. Political tensions in the city are present, unavoidable really, but not yet overwhelming. Civil. It exists as heated debates at the market, not yet as cruel words and crueller actions that will soon haunt their every step. So Findekáno runs with his cousins still, unaware that their carefree, bright days trickle slowly away, like sand being pulled out to sea.

But he is alone with Maitimo, and Findekáno relishes how _easy_ it is between them. How easy it has always been. His dearest friend. A secret love that screams in him.

They stop for water in the shade of the forest, but the day is hot and a lake sparkles beside them, inviting them in. Their clothes are disposed of and then they are running towards it.

The surface of the water breaks around Findekáno when he jumps in. The cold hits him as he is suspended and it is liberating, exhilarating. His heart beats faster when he kicks up towards the surface and he is _alive_. He welcomes the chill.

He swims over to the grass bank, hearing the noise of Maitimo jumping after him, following him towards the grass to climb out and dry off. Findekáno turns just as Maitimo rises out of the water. He feels his whole face flush and heat settles low in his belly.

It could almost be called sinful, the way the water falls from him. It twists in Findekáno, the gleam of the sun on Maitimo’s body, highlighting the dips and rises of muscles toned from sword play and horse-riding. How it sets his hair aflame, crowning him. Findekáno realises for the first time that his cousin is truly a _prince_. That he could one day rule. That Findekáno would follow him gladly.

Then Maitimo turns over to him and grins, and it isn’t fair how all of Findekáno’s being calls out to him. He loves him, he has always loved him.

But now it is more. Now there is _desire_.

He wants to follow the path of the droplets with his tongue. He wants to touch at the warm, freckled skin, see how it contrasts when held tightly against his own. To feel the strength of corded muscles and hear how Maitimo’s voice sounds when whispered into his ear.

The water isn’t cold enough, it is too clear. All of Findekáno is laid bare. Goosebumps rise on his arms but he knows that it is not the fault of the lake.

Maitimo gives him a puzzled look, and Findekáno knows that he has revealed too much. His eyes are too full with it.

Maitimo’s stare widens a fraction as a blush paints across his cheeks, down his chest and Findekáno wants so desperately to see how far down that red skin goes. He can’t. He shouldn’t. Yet Maitimo reaches down to help pull him from the water all the same.

They face each other and the tension of the moment stretches. For a second, Findekáno fears that Maitimo will run, will leave him. But in the same second, he thinks that the taller _n_ _ér_ is on the edge of the same precipice.

Then a young fawn darts through the thick grove behind them, and any words that may have been said are instead carried away with it. Deep into the vast wood.

Instead, Maitimo laughs. It almost comes out steady. Still, the friendly air of before is returned and the tension breaks. “Come, my father will soon grow worried if we do not return by the mingling.”

Findekáno grins back, “Yes. That may provoke an incident.”

They joke with each other as normal on the ride back. Both say nothing of the stolen glances sent to the other.

When they part, a strange sorrow remains with Findekáno, and his dreams that night are fevered, filled with deep cold water and a trail of copper hair.

A year after that, his cousin steals a kiss under the light of Telperion.

Under an infinite sky and hidden in a darkened copse, Findekáno’s knees weaken in Maitimo’s hold.

Their lips meet, and together they fall.

* * *

Makalaurë releases his hold on his brother after the last of the Teleri ships have sunk below the waters of Losgar.

The sky is a strange dark. It is not the deep blue, almost indigo shade of the night. No stars peak through. Instead, it is grey, and the horizon is obscured. Yet the air is dense. Thick smoke settles around them, and breathing becomes difficult. Makalaurë has a strange worry that it will affect his voice. The thought makes him want to laugh. Or even cry.

Fëanáro has disappeared off to speak with Curufinwë or even Tyelkormo. Makalaurë _does not_ think about his father. He cannot. In that minute, it is the only important thing.

He goes instead to speak to Maitimo, who had quieted and stopped struggling after the first ship was lost. Makalaurë lowers down to where his elder brother had sunk onto the damp rock, not thinking about how one false step could send them both tumbling into the waves.

The face he sees shocks him. Maitimo had always been brave, measured. Then there were the times when his anger rose, a terrifying force at both Formenos and Alqualondë. But at that moment he is something vastly different, and Makalaurë cannot see him. He struggles to find his smiling eldest brother in the face that has been left behind. His jaw clenched tightly, gaze fixed out to sea. Tears leave distinct marks in the paths they create from the ash on his face, and he looks lost and small. As if he had just lost something unspeakably dear.

Maitimo who was called Russandol. Their Nelyo. Handsome and clever and kind.

He doesn’t turn to Makalaurë, doesn’t give any indication that he even registers him. Clenched hands instead pick at the fabric of his clothes.

It is the first time Makalaurë looks at his brother and sees a face not beautiful, but wretched.

It will not be the last.

* * *

After Nelyo is returned from Angband, Tyelkormo meets him once, and then makes a concerted effort to not be left alone with him in a room again.

He knows it is shameful, yet the air around his brother has changed. The soft edges of their leader, of their caretaker, are gone. What remains is a broken and tormented thing.

Maybe Tyelkormo is cruel himself for thinking so. But even Huan pads more softly around Nelyo’s bed now. Even Moryo holds his tongue.

The scars are unsettling, but what is more so is the knowledge of how they were made. And for some – for Tyelkormo, who knows too well the ways of the hunt – it is clear to see how they were made.

Mottled skin crawling up his neck: fire. A pale and risen line down the middle of his forearm: knife. Half his ear torn away: teeth.

And then merciless, hidden scars. How he jumps at shadows, yells at servants, beats away healing hands. He apologises, but it comes out empty. And still shadows plague his eyes.

Tyelko had entered the room and the face he saw was twisted in pain, eyes closed as Nelyo screamed and cursed. The language shifted and distorted, and the deformation almost suited him. A pale imitation of one who was once a prince. A king.

Tyelkormo focuses very intently on fletching more arrows. He can’t think about his brother or his father or Morgoth. If he does, he’ll start screaming too. At this point, he doesn’t think he’d be able to stop. The rage simmers too close to the surface.

He’ll return to the woods and he won’t go back into Nelyo’s room. He tells himself that it is not because of fear.

In more than just looks, his brother is changed.

After a while, they all change. Most of them for the lesser.

* * *

Unclasping a shirt is difficult with his non-dominant hand. It is made even more difficult by there being only one hand to use.

But if he cannot unclasp a shirt, he will never hold a sword. And if he cannot hold a sword, he cannot fight the enemy. This is unacceptable.

So Maedhros stands in front of a mirror and twists his left hand to comply.

His hand shakes and no matter how he struggles, the clasp will not break. His nerves are beyond frayed and the urge comes over him to throw a heavy object across the room.

He is stopped by a familiar voice and the opening of a door.

“What flavour today, Maitimo? Mushroom or tomato?”

Fingon would not leave, even when it would be best for him.

Maedhros knows he has become harsher, darker, after Thangorodrim. After he caught the eye of Morgoth’s lieutenant, and all the attention that had brought. He cringes away from the thought. He will not let Sauron rule him. Not anymore.

On one hand, he knows that his nature is not unusual for one who has survived what he has. On the other, it is shameful, and not what their people need from a prince, never mind a king. It is not what his family deserve, what _Fingon_ —

Fingon would not leave.

He thirsts for his cousin’s presence as much as he wishes to flee from it. He doesn’t want Fingon to look upon the wreck that has been made of him. It’s shameful, but it’s only more of a reminder of a time when he was whole, when he was fair. When Fingon would blush at him and think of ways to pull him aside, away from prying eyes. He would not blush at Maedhros any longer.

Even Fingon could admit that Maedhros was not a pleasing sight to look upon. Maedhros knew why.

Poorly healed burns patched across his face — it would be a miracle if he could still use his left eye — while long white lines that could only have been made by a knife criss-crossed over the expansive of his body. A poker had clearly been taken to him, circles of scorched flesh peeking out at random points, pits where it had been removed entirely. Not to mention the stump that Fingon had made of his right hand. Flesh had been torn from both of his ears, entirely changing their shape and leaving tattered edges. The rake of nails could be seen along his thighs, and rusted iron had been left embedded in his chest and feet. Its removal had been excruciating and he still walked with a limp.

His hair – which he used to tend daily with pride – had been cut, cropped back close to his head. It left him looking even more haunted and weak.

Worse than that, Fingon, by virtue of remaining by Maedhros’ side, had subjected himself to the monitoring of wounds, the clean-up of sickness. Maedhros had become a burden on the one person who should not be left with it. _That,_ he could not stand.

And it wasn’t just the physical wounds. He could bear the material pains. But every night, he would wake screaming, the feeling of cold hands still pressed against his body. Visions would fly past his eyes of burning light searing at his eyes, pools of blood spilling across stone, the milky stare of a creature hours dead. The bright gaze of one still living.

Now, returned to his people, it has all been made to foreign. The gestures, the names, the speech; it has all changed. It is used by better people, those who are whole and untainted. It is not a gentle world, but it is still leagues kinder than the realm of Morgoth. Maedhros stands out too starkly. What he has seen, what he has suffered, has marred him, has changed him in the most fundamental way. And like Arda, he cannot change back.

Maedhros doesn’t what he fears more; that it is a dream or that it is reality.

A light touch settles on his arm, and only then Maedhros realises that Fingon had asked him a question, and that he has let the silence stretch far too long.

He is guided back to sit on the bed and Fingon turns to fetch his dinner.

Fingon is speaking, but Maedhros cannot process it. He is still angry over Thangorodrim, over the ruin of his body, the state of his mind. The future of the Noldor, the grief of his uncle’s people, the death of his father. And beneath all that is the oath, throbbing like a living vein, a drum constantly at the base of his thoughts. He cannot suffer further rage. He cannot stand Fingon’s kindness.

The worried voice sounds again.

“Maitimo—”

“No.”

Fingon turns to face him fully, confusion writ across his face.

“What?”

“Do not call me that. Not anymore.”

Fingon’s brows furrow, “I don’t understand. Why not? It is your dearest name. It is the name I love. Can I not address the _n_ _ér_ I love with such?”

“It is not a slight against you, _melmenya_. Please do not think it is.”

Fingon is gentle. He is far, far too gentle. “Then why—”

“Because look upon me! I am surprised you had not seen it before. My face is wrecked, my _hr_ _öa_ shattered. My _fëa_ is near broken. Only a fool could look upon me and call it ‘fair’.”

Fingon’s face twists into a frown, falling quieter.

A moment passes, and then his voice comes, but not in the wat Maedhros had expected. “So you would call me a fool and tell me what to think? You, who always desired to hear my own thoughts, free from my family’s? Who has always said you valued the wisdom of my counsel? You would look at me and tell me it was all lies?”

“Finno—”

A firmness came about his cousin then, a commanding presence that was familiar at the same time it wasn’t.

“ _No_. You will listen to me now, Nelyafinwë Maitimo.” He drew nearer to the bed, scowling and a vision of righteous fury, Maedhros’ shoulders caught in a brutal grip. “I find this form fair still, not because the body is well-shaped, but because it is _you_. My love is not one fickle enough to change when your _hr_ _öa_ does. I fell in love with you because you are considerate, because you are just, because you are _true_. That core of you has not been changed, no matter how much you think otherwise. You are as handsome to me now as you were back then, and as you will be in the years to come. That will never change no matter what anyone tries to take from you. And they will _not_. Because I will not let them. All your scars show me is that there is still a _n_ _ér_ here for me to love.”

Maedhros’ gaze was damp as Fingon brought their heads together, “You will _always_ be Maitimo to me.”

It didn’t sound right, that one could call him fair still. He was altered from years trapped from life, locked in the dark. But Fingon had always been too good, too kind. If one could believe it, could spark the smallest fire of hope back into Maedhros’ cold _fëa_ , could pull him back from the edge his sanity had perched on, it would be Findekáno Nolofinwion. He has Fingon and maybe that is all he needs. Someone to look upon him and not cringe away. To bear with him in good days and ill. The keeper of his heart.

Maybe it wasn’t true, and he definitely did not deserve it. Yet he is desperate for it. For love freely given, even in the face of anguish. And if Fingon wants to believe so, who was Maedhros to stop him? He had already taken enough from the Elda, yet he is selfish and wants more.

He had left Fingon, he had abandoned Fingon, he had _betrayed_ Fingon. But he still loves him, he would always love him. And Maedhros could deny him nothing. It had always been their way. There wasn’t much left of him to love, but for Fingon, he would give all that he had.

Clarity settles over him. This is the _n_ _ér_ who he would live and die with. The opinions of their kin, their people be damned.

His left hand shakes still, but he draws strength from where it grasps at Fingon’s own.

“Marry me?”

Maedhros will remember the smell of his mother’s workshop, the warmth of Laurelin trickling in through his bedroom windows, and Fingon’s face in that moment.

His answer is ‘yes'.

* * *

_Yet after a point, Maedhros no longer responds to the name Maitimo._

_He cannot, for there is no one left who will speak it._

**Author's Note:**

> gimme a shout if tags are missing!


End file.
